


Pet Owner of the Year

by out_there



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 08:03:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10552894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: When Natasha says she’s found a job for them in Antwerp, five weeks max, Clint can’t refuse it because his dog needs tablets twice a day. Technically, Lucky isn’t even his dog.  (Pet shelter AU)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misbegotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/gifts).



> Gift for Misbegotten. Thanks to King_Touchy for the beta and Celli for the cheerleading.

The thing is: it’s not Clint’s dog. Clint doesn’t own it. He didn’t raise it from a puppy or anything. He just... Found it. On a wet Tuesday night, rain coming down so hard even Clint was squinting to see through it, and there was Lucky. This sad mottled heap of fur, whimpering and bleeding and soaked, and what was Clint supposed to do? Just leave him there? What sort of person could do that?

Maybe whoever had hit him with the car could, but Clint couldn’t. So he’d carried Lucky to the vet, and there were operations and bandages on three out of four legs, and antibiotics with every meal and figuring out what a meal for a dog should be. (Apparently not pizza, despite Lucky’s one eyed stare and hopeful sniffing. Pizza was not dog food according to the vet. So Clint only slipped Lucky the occasional slice.)

But it’s not Clint’s dog. So when Natasha says she’s found a job for them in Antwerp, five weeks max, Clint can’t refuse it because his dog needs tablets twice a day. It’s not his dog.

***

Google isn’t as helpful as it should be. There’s a dozen animal shelters just in Brooklyn, but the websites all look the same: pictures of happy dogs and smiling volunteers. He means to call them for some information, but every time he thinks about it Lucky stares soulfully at him and gives a resigned doggy sigh, and Clint crumples. He gives guilty ear scratches and buys the pricey dog food, and somehow ten days dwindles down to two and he doesn’t have a choice.

Unfortunate decisions made on the fly. Really, it’s the story of his life.

But he can’t just prop his apartment door open and leave Lucky with a bag of dog food for five weeks. First of all, Lucky is part hoover and he’d eat most of the bag within the first week and possibly kill himself from sheer gluttony. Secondly, Lucky hasn’t finished his antibiotics. And thirdly, Clint likes his stuff. If he leaves his Bed-Stuy apartment unlocked for five weeks, he’s not going to have any stuff left when he gets back.

So he checks the map, finds the closest shelter that’s open and then takes Lucky on the slowest walk of his life. Halfway there, Clint’s got his phone in hand and he’s _this close_ to calling Nat and claiming he’s come down sick (bird flu’s still a thing, right? Or glandular fever, maybe?), but Nat will kill him if she finds out he’s lied. And it’s not even his dog.

The door jingles cheerily as he walks in. Clint wants to hate the place for it, but people come here to adopt dogs, so maybe it should sound like a happy place. For other people. Not for him and his one-eyed, partially shaved, still limping dog. There’s a blonde co-ed behind the counter who coos at Lucky, and Lucky’s limp gets suddenly worse. Smart dog.

A dark haired girl gives Clint some forms to fill out, and then they’re both fussing over Lucky, offering treats that get swallowed lightning fast as Lucky’s tail thumps against the floor at the attention.

Most of the questions Clint can’t answer -- breed, age, weight-- and when it comes to “reasons for surrender” Clint stares at the page. He’s tempted to write “stupid quarantine laws” but settles on “not my dog” instead.

When he hands it back in, one girl raises an eyebrow and the other gives a sympathetic grimace. “You’re going to have to talk to Mr Coulson,” the blonde says, giving the form back to him. “We’ll keep an eye on Lucky,” she says, and goes back to cooing over him.

Mr Coulson turns out to be 40ish, dark receding hair and big black-rimmed glasses, and a bulky sweater that belongs to someone’s grandpa. At a glance, Clint dismisses him as some middle-class family guy, suburban and judging. Then he smiles and, wow, the guy is unexpectedly hot. “I’m Phil Coulson,” he says, holding out a hand for Clint to shake. He has nice hands. (What? Clint’s a horrible pet owner but his libido works fine.)

“Clint,” Clint says, shaking hands like a proper adult and everything. Nat would be proud. He offers the paperwork. “I filled out what I could.”

Phil – Mr Coulson? That sounds like a teacher, so, no, Phil – reads over the pages and very calmly asks, “What do you mean it’s not your dog?”

“I found him,” Clint says. Phil just watches him, waiting for more so he goes into the whole story. How he found Lucky, how the vet said he didn’t have a chip so he wasn’t registered to anyone, how he put up a few signs but no-one called, the whole thing. He even gets into the whole contractor means international travel thing and he’s single so he doesn’t have anyone who can dog-sit, and Phil stands there and listens, nodding occasionally. He looks a little surprised when Clint opens the gym bag over his shoulder and starts pulling out a dog blanket, toys, food bowls, tablets, the fresh breath treats and the liver ones Lucky really likes.

“Is that all for Lucky?” Phil asks. He doesn’t sound like he’s laughing at Clint, but there’s a crinkle around his eye, a certain amused twinkle that makes Clint feel like the butt of someone’s joke.

“It’s his stuff. I didn’t want him to, you know, feel abandoned.” Clint scratches the back of his neck. It’s not even his dog. He shouldn’t feel bad about it.

“Are you sure you want to surrender him?”

What sort of a question is that? It’s a lousy question. Of course Clint doesn’t want to, he just doesn’t have a choice. “Overseas, five weeks. I don’t have another option here. It’ll be better for Lucky, anyway. A home, a family, what dog doesn’t want that?” Not that Clint’s over-identifying with the mutt he found abandoned and bleeding in the street. Just because he’s lived that experience doesn’t mean that he’s incapable of being a sensible adult about this.

“In that case, we’ll do our best to arrange an adoption for Lucky. Given his health issues, it might be a little harder, but five weeks gives us some time. When can you bring him in to meet potential owners?”

“Now. Or tomorrow. I fly out tomorrow night.”

Phil blinks and pushes his glasses up. “You fly out tomorrow?” he asks carefully.

“For five weeks. That’s why I can’t keep Lucky.”

“Oh,” Phil says. And then, “We have a waiting list. We don’t have the capacity to take in dogs immediately.”

“Crap.” Sometimes, burying his head in hands and hiding from every decision that has led to this point is the only thing Clint can do. It’s not a coping mechanism so much as the result of a series of not great choices and last minute decisions. Clint takes a deep breath and presses cool fingers against his eyelids. He should have done something about this a week ago. He probably should have talked to the vet and done something straight away. But it was nice having Lucky in the apartment, trailing around and keeping him doggie company. He liked the sound of someone else’s footsteps in the apartment.

The fact that this is entirely his own fault does not make it any easier. But he’s a grown man so he takes a deep breath and drops his hands. Phil’s watching him with probably the right amount of concern. “You can’t take him, I can’t take him on a plane, so what can I do?”

“You could pay for a boarding kennel for five weeks,” Phil suggests. 

“I… could?” Clint doesn’t mean for that to come out as a question, but it does. He’d thought about pounds, because he saw _Lady and the Tramp_ at an impressionable age, and found shelters. “I didn’t think of that.”

“You’ve only been a dog owner for a month. You’re excused,” Phil says, with more than a hint of sarcasm. Then he adds, “It would be expensive. Maybe two grand.”

“The vet bills kind of cleared me out.” Another reason why he really can’t call Natasha and say his dog ate his passport. He actually needs the money. He’s not living on ramen and a week from being evicted, but he’s become used to having money for food and utilities sitting in his account. He’d like to keep it that way. “I mean, if I could pay it off, I’ll have money when I come back. That could work.”

“I might have a better idea. Let me make a few calls.”

***

‘A few calls’ means Clint spends the next forty minutes sitting by the reception desk. He tunes out the background noise of typing and the occasional phone call being answered, and watches Lucky’s impression of the coolest dog ever. He’s spent the last twenty minutes lying at Clint’s feet, occasionally raising a brow at Clint and giving him a very doubtful doggy stare. Like he knows they’re both here because forward thinking is a personal weakness of Clint’s. He’s judging Clint’s decision making skills, but Clint doesn’t need to justify himself to a pet. He doesn’t.

And he’s definitely not going to do it in front of other people.

When Phil comes out, the dorky sweater has been abandoned and he’s wearing a light shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his forearms. The top few buttons are undone and Clint can see the edge of a white undershirt. It’s a good look. Clint allows himself a moment to ogle, and then pretends to be a responsible adult. “Any luck?”

“We’ve arranged for a foster home for Lucky,” Phil says. He’s watching Clint’s face so he sees the grimace that Clint can’t hide quick enough. It’s just that he has a history with foster homes, and it’s not a great one. But he doesn’t have a spare few thousand in the bank and beggars can’t be choosers, right?

There’s part of Clint that wants to ask if they’re good people, if Phil can vouch for them, but that would be a bit paranoid. It’s not like people get paid to foster dogs, right? If there’s no money it, there’s a better chance people do it for the right reasons. At least he hopes so. “Thanks.”

“If you have any questions or concerns,” Phil says, pressing a business card into Clint’s hand, “call me. Or email me. Any time.”

***

Many years ago, back when Clint was a stupid punk kid who thought he’d always be able to outrun his problems, he met Natasha. He was a kid with an odd collection of skills – acrobatics, great eyesight, impressive aim and a lot of experience as a thief – and burglary had seemed like a natural fit. Unfortunately, the jewelers Clint was robbing were behind the bank that Natasha had been robbing, and they’d ended up running for their lives together. That’s the sort of experience that ends in enemies or best friends, and since Nat didn’t shoot him when she had the chance, friendship was the obvious choice.

It had been Nat who’d come up with the “Security Consultants” idea. At first, it was a ploy to fake their way into a bank to check out their security systems, but between Nat’s ability to systematically work through a problem and Clint’s talent for seeing unorthodox weaknesses, they’re actually really good at it. Good enough that halfway through that first job, they decided to go legit. So now Clint does his taxes and has a lease in his own name, and gets lawfully paid to spend a few weeks trying to break into banks and tech businesses. It’s awesome.

Apart from the overseas thing and Lucky.

Not that Clint doesn’t enjoy living in a five star hotel on someone else’s dime, but he misses the sound of paws on hardwood floors. He misses the company of Lucky lying beside him, the weight of his head on Clint’s knee when he eats pizza.

He shakes it off and goes back to looking at blueprints. He has a job to do.

***

He makes a whole ten days before emailing. And, yes, he knows this is ridiculous. He doesn’t need Nat’s raised eyebrow of doom to tell him that. “It’s an email. It’s not like I’m being some crazy caller.”

“Which is good, since it’s 4am in New York right now.”

“I’m just checking that I gave them the vet’s information. I can’t remember if I put it on the form or not.” It’s a complete lie. Clint knows he left a card for the vet but it was in with the rest of Lucky’s stuff and maybe no-one saw it. Maybe they forgot to give Lucky his tablets, or that he’s supposed to have a check-up next week for his back legs.

Clint fiddles with his smartphone. It’s a pretty standard email, just a _“Hi… In case I forgot to tell you… Clint”_ type email. Short. To the point. Not a crazy dog owner. He sighs and hits send.

“So,” Nat says over the rim of her coffee cup, “how cute is he?”

“Lucky? Average, I think.” Not that Clint’s a great judge of cute puppies, but he thinks Lucky holds his own in the looks department. “For a cyclops.”

Nat just blinks at him.

“What?”

“Not Lucky. The pet shelter guy you just emailed.”

Someone he’s slept with should not be able to make him flush. There should be a rule somewhere. “That has nothing to do with it.”

“Fairly hot,” Natasha says, nodding to herself.

Clint would argue but he’s never won an argument with Nat. Nat has this annoying tendency to be right. And, well, Phil was scorching.

***

Hi Clint,

Thanks for the information. We’d already organized for Lucky to attend his follow up visit this week. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Hope you’re enjoying Belgium.

Best,  
Phil

***

Phil,  
I’m enjoying the chocolate. Does that count?  
Clint

***

Natasha’s in the middle of the typical Justifying Our Expenses Presentation. Half of their jobs need this little mid-way pep talk to show what they’ve tried, where the current security works well and the next approaches. Nat likes this little song and dance, but only because she likes softening everyone up before they reveal their findings and point out the three different ways they could have stolen a few million. If the security chief is really condescending or especially sexist, they’ll find a few extra ways as a personal bonus.

Clint’s not really listening. He’s heard the spiel a few times, so he’s checking his emails. Phil’s replied again: he prefers Swiss chocolate, he says, but he’s just as happy with Hershey’s. Clint’s wondering if talking about Hershey’s Kisses would be sleazy or just too soon, when another email comes through from Phil. The subject line is ‘ _Proof of Life_ ’ and there’s no message, but a picture attached.

Clint looks around the boardroom. Everyone’s watching Natasha. He’s good.

When he opens the picture, there’s Lucky sitting there, head tilted at a quizzical angle. Today’s NY Times is propped up in front of him, with today’s date circled in red. Clint nearly chokes trying not to laugh.

***

Should I be waiting for a ransom demand?  
Clint

***

Funds to be paid in non-sequential bills. We will also accept milk chocolate and liver treats.

Best,  
Phil

***

Clint honestly enjoys his job. He likes spending hours studying blueprints and shimmying through air vents with the Mission Impossible theme song playing inside his head. He gets a weird little thrill when the alarm blares despite his best efforts, and an ecstatic jolt of glee when he finds a way to sneak past their defenses.

It’s easy to lose track of time while working on their approved heists, but it’s nice to have Phil’s occasional emails to keep him company.

The messages are usually short and funny, and if Clint picks up his phone to ask, “What are you doing right now?” he’ll get a detailed and honest answer. It might be details of paperwork or laundry, or the art of bidding on Captain America cards over eBay, but it’s always interesting.

In return, Clint mentions the more mundane parts of his day. Talking about bank robbery is not good date conversation (Clint knows that from experience), so he figures it’s also not good pre-date email flirting material. And this is definitely flirting. Phil’s mentioned being single. He’s mentioned an ex, and used a male pronoun. He’s been friendly and funny, and Clint is trying to avoid his default sleazy-flirty vibe.

“It’s not really my default,” he tells Natasha as they both scale the second floor.

“Yes, it is,” Natasha says, reaching for her next handhold. “Just like your default resting face looks like you’re plotting murder, your natural flirting comes across as someone’s sleazy drunk uncle.”

Clint finally gets a grip on the third floor balcony and heaves himself over. So far, they’ve avoided the motion detectors but the contact locks on the window will be a challenge. “You don’t know. He could be into that.”

“Nobody is into that, Clint.”

***

Phil, apparently, is into that. Or at least not freaked out enough to cut off contact and never speak to Clint again. The messages and phone calls continue, and that’s when Clint has a moment of doubt. Not about the job, which is going well. Or the flirting, which is edging towards an actual date with Phil talking about his favorite Korean place, and Clint being interested in seeing it, and Phil suggesting they have dinner there some time. (See, Nat? Not sleazy. Score one for Clint’s ability to control his inner drunk-uncle.). No, Clint’s having doubts about the dog.

And the stupid thing is: it’s not even his dog.

He’s asked Phil if Lucky’s happy but he hasn’t been game to ask about who’s fostering him. Phil sends pictures every so often, and health updates, and Lucky looks fine. Five weeks is a lot of time to grow back fur. Now he’s got the cast off, he looks like a regular, playful dog. Well, in the pictures, he looks like he’s a winking, regular dog because of the missing eye, but he looks like a good family pet.

And that’s not a problem, but... What if he’s with a good family?

What if Lucky’s playing with kids and lying on somebody’s porch, and living out the doggie ideal? Okay, the porch probably isn’t likely in Brooklyn. But if there’s a family that’s had Lucky for five weeks, they might have fallen for the furry guy.

And if they want to keep Lucky, well... It’s not Clint’s dog.

The sensible, mature thing to do would be to email Phil and ask him to talk to the foster family, find out what they’re like and if they deserve to keep Lucky. So of course, Clint makes travel plans and dinner arrangements and doesn’t bring it up at all.

***

Or, okay, he doesn’t mean to. But he babbles. Babbling is something he excels at, and sometimes those insecurities that don’t need to be shared… get shared. Somehow.

They’re debating barbecue -- Texas ribs vs Carolina pulled pork -- and sharing tales of road trips, and Phil mentions family holidays as a kid, hours in the backseat to drive cross country.

“We didn’t really do that,” Clint says. “My family wasn’t...”

“Spread all over?” Phil suggests.

“Around much,” Clint answers. He frowns at the mirror in his hotel room, but his reflection doesn’t have any useful suggestions.

“In what way?” Phil asks gently.

“We spent a lot of time in foster care. Not doggie foster care where there’s a family that wants you, more the kind where they’re happy to take the extra money as long as you don’t make trouble.” That’s the sort of thing he tries not to mention. It makes him look like a bad long-term option. Win them over with athletic sex first, explain the crappy childhood later. “And that is a downer of a conversation, so maybe we should change the subject. Tell me about how happy Lucky is with his new family.”

Phil takes a breath. There’s a pause that makes Clint worry. “Did you want Lucky to be adopted by a family?”

It’s a good question. Clint doesn’t know what to say. He’d rather keep Lucky for himself, but that feels selfish. If Lucky’s found a family that loves him, Clint’s not going to stand in the way of that. Just because he never found it doesn’t mean Lucky should miss out.

“If they want him, yeah,” Clint says. “He’s great company and he deserves a loving family. Some nights I don’t remember to feed myself, so I’m not going to win Pet Owner of the Year.”

“I talked to the vet,” Phil says. “He told me how you carried Lucky in. I think Lucky found a very good owner.”

“You do?” 

“He wasn’t your dog and you carried him to the vet. You came in to surrender him with a bag of things so he wouldn’t feel abandoned. The reason I run this shelter is to find owners who’ll care for their dogs and consider their needs. You’re a natural, Clint.”

“So it’s okay for me to keep him?” Clint scratches the back of his neck. He can feel himself flush at the praise. “Do you think the family’s he’s staying with will be disappointed?”

“This might be a good time to point out that Lucky’s hasn’t been staying with a family. He’s been staying with me.”

“How come?”

“Because I had less than twenty four hours to find foster care for a dog with ongoing medical needs,” Phil replies, a little defensive. Clint’s about to apologize when Phil clears his throat and adds, “And I wanted an excuse to talk to his hot owner.”

“Huh,” Clint says, grinning widely at his own reflection. “Really? Like, not in a bad way, in a very cool way, but that was sneaky. I approve.”

“You approve of sneaky?” Phil asks carefully.

“You’ll understand when you meet Nat. She’s sneaky personified.” Clint thinks for a moment, and then adds, “You know I’m flying back next week, right?”

“I did.”

“Maybe you could show me that Korean place?”

***

Phil suggests collecting Lucky from the shelter, and Clint’s happy for an excuse to see Phil immediately. They’re going out Friday night, but it never hurts to stop by and be a little charming. Especially while wearing a sleeveless shirt. (Clint knows where his assets are.)

Phil is waiting for him, glasses tucked into the pocket of his blue button down, wearing khaki pants and shined shoes. Beside him, Lucky sits patiently. He doesn’t yip or jump, and Clint’s starting to feel a little unloved until he sees the liver treat in Phil’s hand. Lucky’s eyes keep glancing from Phil’s hand to Clint, and if Clint’s return is almost as tempting as a liver treat, he’s feeling pretty good about himself. Lucky will ignore pizza for those treats. There is nothing more important to him.

When Clint closes the door behind him, Phil throws the treat with an approving, “Good boy.” Lucky’s jaws snap shut around it, and then he’s leaping on Clint, tail wagging. Clint gets two arms of fur, and a face full of doggy breath.

“Aw, missed me, huh?”

“He kept looking for you.” Phil smiles warmly, and it’s only the fact that he’s crouched down hugging a dog that stops Clint from doing… something. Something drunk uncle sleazy, no doubt. “Every time we came in here, he’d wander around sniffing for you.”

Now, Clint feels a bit stupid for worrying that his dog would forget him, would want to leave him for some perfect family with an empty dog bed. “I missed you too,” he tells Lucky, giving a big ear scratch. “Let’s go home, huh?”

Phil hands him a bag of Lucky’s stuff as he stands up. One hand lingers on Clint’s forearm just a little too long. Long enough to make Clint wishes it was Friday already. Then again, he’s jetlagged and will probably spend the next sixteen hours sleeping, so waiting a few days might be a good thing. “Friday, right?”

“Yes,” Phil says, “Friday.”

When Nat says he’s smooth, she’s always being sarcastic. Clint proves that by saying, “So, um,” and then not being able to finish the sentence.

“Get some sleep,” Phil says, sounding like he’s this close to laughing at Clint’s inability to form a sentence, “and I’ll see you Friday. Who knows? I might even see Lucky.”

Which would only happen if he came up to Clint’s apartment. And they’re meeting at the restaurant, so that would be after dinner. Which would be… “I am so jetlagged right now. I can’t believe how long it took me to get that.”

Clint can’t really blame Phil for laughing at him. But he totally doesn’t deserve Lucky’s long-suffering stare.

***

There’s a soft press against his blanket-covered shoulder. And then a snuffle as a damp nose nudges his arm. “Bed,” Clint mumbles, and Lucky ignores him. “It’s too early.”

“It’s six-thirty,” Phil says, voice slightly muffled by the pillow. “And he’s your dog.”

Lucky whines pathetically.

“Too early,” Clint says, but Lucky doesn’t go back to bed. He just sits there and drops the weight of his head on Clint’s arm. Clint wants to ignore it, he does, but it’s a lost cause when he opens one eye and Lucky’s tail starts thumping against the floor in excitement. “Fine. Pants. Lead.”

Lucky jumps back, running to the living room for his lead. Beside him, Phil says, “One of those is for you, right?”

Clint drags himself upright. “It is too early for sarcasm.”

“It’s never too early for sarcasm,” Phil says, rolling over just enough to eye Clint like a tasty chunk of steak. It’s flattering. Clint stretches, both arms raised high, and Phil licks his lips.

Huh. Clint should probably put on a shirt as well as pants. “This is not my favorite part of dog ownership.”

“Less complaining, more walking.” Clint’s about to complain about that horrible lack of empathy – early mornings are the time for complaining – but Phil smiles and adds, “And then you can come back to bed.”

Clint is very okay with that plan.


End file.
